Chapter 3
It really was freezing in Kiruna, Ambra thought as she moved, shivering, between the airplane and the terminal building. The wind tore at her jacket, and she half ran behind her fellow passengers. They had passed the Arctic Circle long before they landed, and up here in the north of the country, the sun had set on December 10 and wasn’t expected to rise above the horizon again until January. Right now, in the middle of the day, the light seemed more like dusk, but in just a few hours’ time, it would be completely dark.
She had only hand luggage with her, and so she hurried through the arrivals hall, toward the exit and the bus. The feeling of unease grew with each step. The snow was piled up in yard-high banks, the ground covered, too, and she slipped in her too-thin boots. A pack of eager huskies howled behind a steel mesh fence. Still shivering, she climbed on board, bought a ticket to Kiruna, and sat down by a window. Snow, snow, snow. The unease was practically physical now. The bus started up.
She was ten when she’d arrived in Kiruna for the first time. It was just a few days before Christmas then, too, which might be why everything felt especially tough now. A stressed social worker with pale, curly hair and darting eyes had spoken to her, explained that Ambra couldn’t stay with the family she was currently living with. She remembered how she’d clutched her teddy in her arms. She knew she was too old for a soft toy, but he had been her only security.
“What’s your teddy called?” the social welfare secretary asked, with that artificial tone adults always used.
“Just Teddy,” Ambra whispered.
“You and Teddy are going to live with another family now. You’ll have to ride the bus yourself, but you’re so big now, Ambra, it’ll be just fine. It’ll be an adventure,” she said with false cheer.
Ambra boarded that bus with her teddy and a small box containing her mother’s and father’s possessions.
“Someone coming to meet you?” the bus driver had asked. Ambra nodded, didn’t dare say that she didn’t know.
The bus driver was kind, offered her strong, minty throat tablets and talked to her all the way there. But once they arrived, her worries grew. It was the first time she had ever seen so much snow. She was wearing all the warm clothes she had, but she was still freezing. She kept close to the bus driver as he helped the other passengers lift their bags from the luggage compartment. What if no one came to meet her? What would she do then?
“Are you the foster kid?” she heard a cold voice say behind her.
Even before she turned around, she knew it wouldn’t be good.
“Were you getting off here?”
Ambra jumped and returned to the present.
The bus driver was giving her an encouraging look in the rearview mirror. They were at her stop.
Ambra got up, grabbed her bag, and hurried off the bus. She trudged forward and managed to make it to her hotel, the Scandic Ferrum, without falling flat on her face. As she entered the warmth of the lobby, she stamped the snow from her feet and was greeted by a young receptionist. She checked in and headed up to her room on the second floor. It was icy cold inside, and she pulled a fleece sweater from her bag, placed her laptop beneath one arm, and went back down to reception.
“It’s really cold in my room,” she said.
“We’ve been having trouble with the heating,” the receptionist explained. “We’re working to fix it, but I’m afraid I don’t have any other rooms available.”
Ambra decided to work in the hotel restaurant. She sat down at one of the tables with her computer in front of her. The place was full of lunch guests—completely normal people, she assumed, but they still gave her the creeps. Her eyes scanned the room over and over again, and she kept checking the entrance, afraid that someone from her past might appear, however unlikely that was.
Their names were Esaias and Rakel Sventin, the people who became her new foster parents. Esaias was tall and strict, Rakel pale and silent with her hair in a thick plait down her back. They had five sons, four older boys from Esaias’s first marriage, and one between them, a year older than Ambra. Esaias ruled the family with an iron fist.
“Sit back there,” he said to her when he eventually picked her up from the bus. He pointed to an old car, and Ambra climbed in. She didn’t have any choice. Esaias Sventin reached for her, pulled Teddy from her arms, threw him into a trash can, and then closed the car door.
Someone dropped a tray, and Ambra was dragged back to the lunch restaurant. She glanced around, her heart pounding, and she shuddered when a tall, thin man came into the restaurant. A wave of repulsion, almost fear, washed over her before she realized that, of course, it wasn’t Esaias, just someone who looked vaguely similar to him. But her body remembered.
She sipped her coffee and placed a hand on her cell phone. I’m a grown adult, she repeated to herself. It was her constant mantra. Every second, defenseless children were suffering all over the world. Far too many of them lived a life much worse than what she herself had had to endure. If only she could leave Kiruna, she would feel peaceful and happy.
Her cell phone screen flashed. News was arriving all day. She skimmed through the latest, shared a link on Twitter, uploaded a photo to Instagram. She was a modern-day reporter, the kind they always talked about at editorial meetings and reshuffles, the kind who should be “out among the readers.” Many of her coworkers grumbled, some thought themselves too good to be writing on social media, but it actually suited her perfectly, and her online platform was probably one of the main reasons she still had her job. So she made an effort to be noticed digitally.
“You wouldn’t be Ambra Vinter?”
She looked up at the man standing by her table. Young, slim, and very handsome. Thick winter coat and heavy boots. A huge Nikon camera on a wide strap over one shoulder. A bag of lenses on the other.
“You’re the freelancer,” she said.
“Tareq Tahir,” he confirmed. They shook hands, and he sat down opposite her. Ambra studied him furtively as he put his camera on the table. Tareq had to be twenty, maybe twenty-one. Plenty of photographers were young; the best always got into the field early. He had thick eyelashes, dark brown eyes. A manly, sexy mouth. Sensitive, strong fingers that fiddled with his camera.
Tareq flashed a white smile at the waitress, who hurried over to their table to ask if he wanted anything. Ambra had been forced to go up to the counter to order her lunch, coffee, and refill. Not one waitress was interested in coming over to serve her. But then again, she didn’t look like she was in a boy band either.
“So, how’s it going?” Tareq asked once the waitress dashed away. “Have you got hold of her?”
Ambra worriedly shook her head. She had a problem. She’d spoken to Elsa Svensson the day before. The ninety-two-year-old had an unexpectedly clear and lively voice, and she seemed more than happy to talk, said she was looking forward to their meeting. But as Ambra was boarding the airplane, she’d received a message saying that Elsa wanted to push back their meeting.
“I tried calling her several times, but she didn’t answer.”
“What do you want to do?” Tareq asked.
Ambra knew Elsa’s address and had considered just heading over there, but that kind of thing could lead to a recoil effect. People were tricky like that. Not everyone appreciated journalists turning up at their house and asking to come in. Strictly speaking, she didn’t even know if Elsa was home. The old lady might have packed up and left Kiruna. It happened. People who promised to talk often changed their minds at the last minute. They had every right to, but that didn’t stop it from being annoying as hell.
“Do you know her?” she asked.
Tareq gave her an amused look. “You mean everyone knows everyone in Kiruna? It’s not actually that small.”
That wasn’t what she meant; it was just a desperate question, a way of trying to solve the problem of their missing interview subject.
She knew exactly what Kiruna was like. Of course not everyone knew everyone. In fact, the inhabitants were fairly good at letting everyone go about their business undisturbed. A foster child could, for example, come to school with bruises, untreated ear infections, and fractured bones without anyone seeming to notice. She was being unfair, of course. Kiruna wasn’t the only place like that. It was that way almost everywhere, because they lived in a crappy world.
Ambra scratched her hairline. The hat she was wearing was itchy, but it was so damn cold that she kept it on.
“Are you from here?” she asked Tareq, though she suspected she knew the answer; he had virtually no dialect.
“Nope, born and raised in Stockholm. I moved up with my mom after high school. She met a guy from Kiruna and fell in love with both him and the area. I’m just visiting her. I’ll be back in Stockholm after New Year’s. I’m starting a photography course.”
“But you already work for Aftonbladet?”
“I got lucky and found a load of freelance work.”
She interpreted that as meaning Tareq was pretty damn good. Judging by his appearance, he had roots somewhere in the Middle East. Iraq, she would guess. If his parents were immigrants, then he probably hadn’t had anyone to give him a leg up in the business, which meant that getting photography work for a major national paper must have been a near-impossible task. But he’d managed it.
“You did a few jobs for Entertainment, right?” she asked, remembering what Grace had said. “How did you like it there?” she asked as neutrally as she could. In her opinion, Entertainment was a damn sewer. They reported on society events, news at the edge of journalism. They couldn’t ask critical questions and were treated badly by everyone—the celebrities, their own bosses. It was awful. Unless you enjoyed chasing reality TV stars and monitoring Instagram accounts.
Tareq’s fingers stroked the smooth lines of his camera. Short, clean nails; dark strands of hair; masculine hands. And then that gentle, polite voice. He was incredibly nice. And attractive.
“You were there too?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she replied without elaborating. It had been her worst year as a reporter. All she could hope was that she would never have to lie in a bush waiting for some unfaithful celebrity to leave their lover’s apartment again.
“So bad.” He laughed with an empathetic look in his warm eyes. “I thought it was fine. But maybe not what I want to do for the long run,” he added.
Handsome, nice, and diplomatic. Tareq would go far. Ambra felt a sudden, inappropriate urge to pull off her hat and plump up her hair. The waitress came back with Tareq’s order. He clutched the condensation-covered glass of orange soda.
“Fanta is my vice,” he said, smiling at the waitress who looked as though she wanted to start a family with him.
After the waitress reluctantly left them, Ambra glanced down at her cell for roughly the tenth time. She was itching with restlessness. To put it bluntly, she was costing the paper money up here if she didn’t produce anything. She was already trying to come up with alternative pieces in her head. Something about snow, maybe? Or the plans to move the entire town away from the mine shaft?
Tareq gulped down his soda and pushed the glass away. He got up and grabbed his camera and lens bag. “I just wanted to come in and say hi. Is it okay if I go out awhile? I have some things I can be doing while we wait. Just let me know as soon as you hear anything.”
Ambra nodded, watched him leave with long, quick steps, and then allowed her gaze to sweep across the restaurant. The Scandic Ferrum was in the middle of town, and it seemed to function as some kind of gathering point. Businessmen and women shivering in thin jackets at one table. Mothers in practical winter clothing, feeding their babies purées and fruit at another. A group of firefighters over by the counter.
She studied them for a while before she checked her phone. Sent the latest message to Grace and waited impatiently to see whether a bubble containing three dots might appear, an indication that a reply was on the way. She wanted to know what she should do if Elsa Svensson didn’t turn up.
Nothing.
She opened Instagram instead, wondered whether she should call Jill, but then her cell phone flashed and vibrated in her hand. Grace had finally replied: Heard any more?
Ambra replied with quick, practiced movements: Nope. Should I wait?
She almost hoped that Grace would tell her to go home. But no: Yeah, wait. Did Tareq turn up?
Yup.
Grace ended with: Keep me updated.
Ambra put down her phone. She drummed her fingers on the table in frustration. She’d drunk far too much coffee and was feeling shaky and slightly ill. She glanced up at the counter again. The firefighters were gone. A solitary man was left, buying a coffee. He was wearing a thick, unbuttoned winter coat, a plaid shirt, and a T-shirt beneath it.
While Ambra thought about what to do next, she studied the man. There was something about him she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He was silent, standing tall like a mountain. Broad shoulders. Long-haired and bearded, too. He looked like a tough guy, a real Norrland cliché; all that was missing was the snowmobile and the gun. Ambra turned away. She’d always had trouble with the beefed-up, macho type.
The man came toward her table with a mug of coffee, and she cast another quick glance at him. FBI, it said on the T-shirt beneath his shirt. She squinted at the text beneath it. Female Body Inspector. Jesus, that was tasteless. She pulled a disgusted face and couldn’t stop herself from muttering, “Nice shirt,” just as he walked by.
“What?” The man stopped. His voice was dull and hoarse, and he looked at Ambra as if she had just appeared from thin air, as if he was so deep in thought that he hadn’t even realized he was around other people.
She could make out zero sense of humor in what had to be the darkest eyes she had ever seen. Every warning bell she had was ringing.
“Did you say something?” he asked, and his eyes narrowed on her. They were bloodshot, and his beard looked unkempt. Then there was the chauvinist slogan. It was a joke, she knew that, but she had written so many articles about trafficking, child prostitution, and honor killings. About young women treated as objects, or worse. About perfectly ordinary men who murdered their girlfriends or wives in a jealous rage, simply because they thought they owned them and their bodies. His T-shirt was disgusting, even if it was meant to be humorous.
She knew she should apologize, stay quiet, ignore him. “You’re not funny, if that’s what you thought,” she said instead.
The man froze, and she tensed. Just take it easy, Ambra. He looks dangerous. The man continued to stare at her, as if he didn’t understand what she meant. A shiver passed through her. It looked like he was about to say something, but then he shook his head and moved on.
Ambra slumped back in her chair. The blood started running through her veins again. She didn’t dare turn around and look for him. There was something in his eyes, something in the way he held himself that told her he wasn’t someone she should provoke. The hairs on the back of her neck were on end, and she assumed he was sitting somewhere behind her. Christ, she hated this town.